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Vin de McKean
Returning to Bloggage
After the plague, I have returned to Neo, and have decided to go on an e-ramble, and hoping someone can take the time to comment or something, unlike my last man flu-induced take on life. There I am, blog-comment whoring, shamelessly, using commas alot. Wahey, there goes a full stop, very good. Very good indeed. Unlike Crewe when I travelled down to Whaddon Road to watch them, not helped by a pernickety spineless ref who disrupted rather than disciplined the game, although perhaps that aided our game more than Cheltenhams. Clever taking out our only attacking threat only on, knocking big Calvin cold right in front of us, the bastards. Dario should have put Donaldson on instead though, Popey and Miller were tackless. But hey ho that's the beauty of football for you. Unless your six points adrift at the bottom of the table.
No matter, a Burton scout watched me score a twenty-five yard volle
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The Plague and Regrettable Stuff
You have to imagine this being spoken in a soft, charming Irish brogue. Apart from I don't have an Irish brogue, or a soft voice, although hopefully the twang of Merseyside would be considered charming by some. Not, however, through a faceful of mucus, which is the condition I've been under these past few days, from Sunday the day of rest, to this afternoon, where thankfully the manflu has lessened and I can now now breathe through my nose. I never realised how much of a blessing that was until I lost it, it's bloody impossible to try and sleep without either asphyxiating or being kept awake by your own breathing.
So due to being in a degraded, delapidated condition, I curled up on the couch, unable to blog. Did you see all those 'c's and 'd's? That's what I call artisanism, or possibly alliteration. Does anyone care or this just bloggishness coming through my mucus exterior, forcing it's
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Bogies and Cough Sweets
The foghorn sound of my snozzlers exploding once more erupts through the room. I have the plague, and I am dying. My throat is dry no more how much water is tossed down to it, my head aches no matter how many aspirins are taken, no matter how many walls it is banged against. And to top it all of my nose is rebelling and insisting on spurting a viscous, thick, green sludge out at high speed every minute or so. Little bastard. The very sound of my typing is disturbing by the occasional snot rocket and every tap of a button grinds another jigsaw of pain into my cranium. A growing bag of used tissues is at my feet, a loo roll at my side, as I lament at the current predicament I am in. Woe is me woe is me woe is me. The unending depression caused by my degraded position is made all the worse by the fact that this is a weekend. The only freetime I get, and I'm spending it bitching because I fe
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Penguin Wafer and Bordeaux
So here's me, ruffling through the weekly shopping. Having snaffled a pork pie as a starter, looking for some real nourishment to kick me off for the weekend, and I open a perfectly innocent bag, strewn on the kitchen floor and find some innofensive plastic wrappers, emblazoned with 'McVities Penguin Wafer Triple Chocolate'. My mind went into insta-bitch, thinking of how poor it was likely to be. It wasn't too bad when I think about it, although it had the familiar wafter texture of chocolate-wrapped disintegrating corrugated cardboard. Inevitably something I will never grow fond of. Unlike jaffa cakes, the addictive little bastards, in their tubular packets, waiting to be seperated from biscuit to orange stuff. When you take one you take another and once two are gone you have to finsih the pack to avoid feeling guilty. A vicious cycle but one that whoever makes jaffa's have perfected. B
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Bubbly Champagne
And candy canes and silver lights are go. Christmas adverts are already established on the TV sets of the nation, and love them or hate them, it is now only three days until the run-up begins with Advent and calendars are opened across the country. It is the festive season soon, a credit crunch Christmas as some jobber in the media will term it, with the usual shopping rush and midnight ambulance services. All it takes is a brief line of a Christmas advert to sprout that shit out of my mouth. Which is what blogging is all about I suppose. Probably.
Imparting knowledge to the younger generations should be another part of every educated human being's life. I arrived late to the bus this afternoon and whiled away the journey giving a bunch of 11 year olds a much needed education in order to raise awareness that the key to the rest of your life is in your trousers. It's refreshing, morally so
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Chardonnay and Marmite
Marmite is the smell of pure raw animal sexuality. I wish I smelled of marmite. After my recent termination of a relationship, after several questions as to my sexuality by a girlfriend of six months and culminating in the immortal words 'YOU CLOTH-EARED BINT' I decided no more, no more would I be yet another pawn in a card game. No more. No freaking more. But the heart has once more proved itself the king, while I play the pawn. Enough with the crap similies and illusions to board games WHAT A FREEKICK BY BUCKTOOTH RONALDINHO!!!!!!! Play up Pompey anyway. Yeah, well.
So I find myself swinging from roundabouts and spinning on slides, looking for a strawberry in a mulberry bush, writting shit on a blog. Woo a blog, I said to myself, always wanted one myself. And now I have one and I'm writing about strawberries and roundabouts. About the half-eated kit-kat on toast that is my life. Sickly
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Tweety Pie
Liverpool Exile, Cheshire, England 
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About this blog:
Sometimes all you need is love, sometimes all you need is stuff, and sometimes you just need an aspirin or some shite. Sit back, relax, take some vin and read the freaking inane ramble man!
Sometimes all you need is love, sometimes all you need is stuff, and sometimes you just need an aspirin or some shite. Sit back, relax, take some vin and read the freaking inane ramble man!
